Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

by Christi Caldwell

  For one long moment she felt a remarkable connection to Christopher. They were each victims of their family’s machinations.

  As a bachelor, Geoffrey must have commiserated with Christopher’s awkward situation for he neatly steered the conversation in another direction. “Waxham, I understand you are to be congratulated on fleecing Lord Whitmore of his stables.”

  Christopher shifted in his seat, seeming equally uncomfortable with the new topic for discussion.

  Sophie’s ears perked up. Lord Whitmore was a reprehensible dandy. Yet, it was inexcusable to relieve the gentleman of his entire stables.

  Mother gave Geoffrey a pointed look. “It is not the thing to discuss gaming with ladies present.”

  “Oh, come. I think Waxham is to be commended,” Geoffrey said to Mother. He directed his attention at Christopher once again. “If there is truth to the rumors, you are now in possession of two Friesian and three thoroughbreds?”

  “It is actually three Friesian,” the marquess interjected for his son. “Then there is the white Arabian. Isn’t that right, Christopher?”

  Christopher picked up his wine and took a long sip. “That’s correct.” His voice sounded curiously flat.

  Sophie frowned at his detachment.

  He must have felt her harsh stare for he looked at her. “I gather by the creases at the corners of your eyes and the frown upon your lips that you disapprove.”

  “I do not have creases at my eyes,” she said automatically. “And I don’t approve of anyone who uses their skillset at cards to exploit another’s weakness.”

  His eyes narrowed. He leaned close and she immediately sank from him. Her heart hammered wildly at the muscle that throbbed at the corner of his hard, firm lips. “First, Whitmore chose to partake in cards. He was free to leave the table at any time. Second,” he dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Unless you know all the details, Miss Winters, I suggest you avoid speaking in absolutes.” Christopher refocused his attention on his meal, promptly dismissing Sophie.

  He didn’t speak another word to her. Sophie didn’t know why his disregard should fill her with this keen disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief when the meal neared its conclusion.

  At last, Mother clapped her hands. “Shall we retire to the parlor? Sophie will regale us with a song upon the pianoforte.”

  Sophie’s relief died a swift death. “No!” The refusal burst from her with such vehemence that four pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction. She cleared her throat. “That is, I’d rather not play this evening.” She glared over at her mother, whose lips pursed with a clear desire to protest.

  The last thing Sophie wanted was to subject herself to the humiliation of performing like a small child for the marquess and his son. Her mind traveled back to the first time she’d played in front of Christopher. She’d been a girl of seven; he’d been nearly five and ten years. Sophie had wanted nothing more than to play with her doll, Penelope but Mother insisted Sophie play the pianoforte for the Marquess of Milford. She’d played not even three notes when Christopher had beat his hand against his leg and roared with laughter.

  It was the last time she’d played for an audience.

  Her brother, in attempt to cut the palpable tension, directed his attention toward Christopher. “My sister is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Aren’t you, Sophie?”

  Christopher’s gaze landed on her.

  Perhaps she should smile and show her teeth after all. It would be a good deal more direct than this game young ladies were forced to put on for the sake of a marital match. “I’m not playing, Geoffrey.”

  Mother cleared her throat. “She’s just being modest.”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, no I’m not.” She held her brother’s gaze in a silent battle of the wills.

  Geoffrey shoved back his chair and stood. “You’ll play.” He directed his attention to his guests. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor?”

  She opened her mouth to labor the point when Christopher climbed to his feet. He helped her from her seat and held his elbow out. Sophie placed her fingertips along the sleeve of his jacket and allowed him to escort her to the Red Parlor. With its blood-red wallpaper and crimson upholstery it was the most garish room in their entire household. She wrinkled her brow. The one saving element to the room was her beloved pianoforte.

  “I’d say this is the quietest I remember you,” Christopher murmured, interrupting her puerile musings. “Never tell me you’re still afraid of the Red Parlor.”

  A smile played on her lips. “It is a horrendous room.”

  He chuckled; the sound familiar and friendly, not the sarcastic expression of mirth she expected of him. “It is the kind of space that would give young children night terrors.”

  They entered the blood-red room, with its soaring ceilings and full floor-length windows. Her gaze traveled around the fifty-foot space, until it landed upon the snarling lions. She loathed them with the same burning intensity she had as a child.

  Christopher followed her gaze, to the red-upholstered sofa with its dark, mahogany arms. He turned to her mother. “Might I take Sophie for a stroll around the room?”

  Mother clapped her hands like a child who’d just received a reprieve from her daily lessons. “What a delightful idea, Christopher.”

  “Thank you for sparing me from her and Geoffrey’s pestering,” Sophie said.

  Christopher lifted his chin in unspoken acknowledgement. He ushered her in silence down the perimeter of the long room, until they’d placed a considerable distance between their families.

  He slowed his pace. “They’re trying to make a match,” he said, breaking into the silence.

  “Yes. Yes, they are,” she muttered, humiliated by her brother’s desperate attempt to marry her off; especially to a gentleman who’d so clearly avoided her through the years. The sting of embarrassment slapped her cheeks.

  He chuckled. “Based upon your response, marriage to me is not something you would prefer.”

  Unbidden, Odysseus danced through her imaginings. His ready grin. His appreciation for intelligence. He’d not looked at her as an oddity or as a lady underneath his notice.

  She held her palms up. “How am I to respond to that, Christopher?”

  “Honestly.”

  Sophie glanced up at him and started. When had Christopher gone from the tall, gangly boy who’d teased her to this towering, lean but well-muscled figure? She furrowed her brow and continued to peer at him. His too long black locks defied fashion’s norms. And his eyes. She squinted…there was something ever so familiar, ever so friendly about his hazel eyes.

  “Phi?” He wrinkled his brow. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh, yes. Fine.” Her toes curled at having been discovered studying him. “You were saying?”

  “I was pointing out that you don’t want to wed me.”

  “Nor you me.”

  He blanched. “God, no.”

  She bit the inside of her lip not knowing why his words should cause this pang in her heart. “Why don’t you say what it is you’re thinking and be done with it.”

  He must have heard the hurt in her words. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to offend you,” he said, in hushed undertones.

  Sophie started at this unexpected side of her childhood nemesis. Mayhap he’d not grown into as boorish a man as he’d been a child. She stumbled a bit and he helped right her footing.

  “My father would like us to make a match of it.”

  Ahh, so they’d come round to the real reason for Christopher’s sudden interest in her company. Sophie glanced across the room. Mother’s hawk-like gaze rested on Sophie and Christopher as they continued their stroll around the room. Her brother sat with his legs folded, a smile on his face.

  She sighed. “As do my brother and mother. Alas the only thing to stop them from agreeing to…” Sophie snapped her lips closed.

  Christopher paused and forced her to a stop. “The only thing to stop them?” he urged
.

  Sophie looked anywhere but at him. The last humiliation she needed was to admit Geoffrey and Mother’s grasping attempt at a ducal title. Especially when it required Sophie to secure said ducal title.

  “Phi?” he pressed.

  Perhaps it was the desperate urgency underlying his tone that made her set aside any attempt at self-preservation. “I told them I could bring a duke up to scratch.”

  Christopher’s rocked back on the heels of his black Hessian boots. “A duke?”

  She nodded.

  He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to study her. “Any specific duke?”

  “I told them the Duke of Mallen,” she said on a rush. And because she knew Christopher’s closest relationship was with the duke, she felt her whole body flame with mortification.

  “Mallen?” he repeated, as though she’d suggested God himself had plans to court her.

  Sophie lifted her shoulder in a little shrug. “The only thing that would stop their tenacity was if I dangled his title in front of them.”

  “And they believed this?”

  At the incredulity in his tone, she slipped her arm back in his and gave him a sharp pinch.

  He winced. “Ouch.”

  “What would you have me do? Agree to their madcap scheme to wed me to you?” She tugged her arm free and resumed walking. His long strides closed the distance she’d put between them, and he fell into step beside her.

  “That’s rather insulting,” he groused from under his breath.

  “That’s something we’ve never been short of, my lord. Insults.”

  Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Why give them Mallen’s name?” he asked suddenly, unexpectedly.

  Sophie held her palms up. “My mother and brother are not unlike every other family that seeks the most advantageous match. Can you think of a match more suitable than one with the Duke of Mallen?”

  “Hmm.”

  If their families weren’t staring she would have pinched him again for the incredulity in that one syllable utterance. Why was it so very hard to believe that she, Sophie Winters, should garner the notice of the Duke of Mallen? She shoved aside the very obvious reminder that she’d not managed even one serious suitor in two full Seasons.

  Except Odysseus. My mystery hero.

  Christopher looked across the room. She followed his stare to where it lingered on their families, who now studied Sophie and the young earl as though they were an exotic genus of insect on display at the Royal Museum.

  “Sophie, it’s time for you to play the pianoforte.” Geoffrey’s directive carried across the long parlor.

  She winced. Much the way she had done as a small child, Sophie glanced around in desperate search of escape. “I’d rather…” She looked to Christopher.

  He, however, was of no help. Instead, he guided her over to the instrument, as though he were a kind of executioner leading her to the steps of the guillotine.

  Sophie didn’t know how to explain this swell of disappointment as he abandoned her for a seat alongside his father. Her gaze alternated between Christopher, who stared at her with a warm expectancy that she didn’t know how to make sense of…and the pianoforte.

  “Sit, Sophie,” Mother snapped.

  Sophie jumped, her legs knocked against the delicate bench. She dipped a curtsy. They treated her little better than Duke; expected to sit, stand, and come upon command. She tugged out the bench and sat, her gaze fixed on the ivory keys. They called to her. Beckoned. When she was at this instrument, all her doubts, all her insecurities lifted and she was simply a woman captivated by the power of music.

  What her brother and mother expected of her, however, killed all such joy. They would transform her love into something intended to garner the notice of Lord Waxham and his father.

  Her fingers poised over the keys, she took a deep breath and began to peck at them, one finger at a time.

  With his eye on some coin, Lord McMartin

  Behind a curtain, courted Lady Aberdeen

  He asked for her hand

  He promised her laughter

  And happily ever afters

  If only she'd kneel…

  “Sophie!” Geoffrey barked.

  Sophie’s fingers ground to a screeching halt. She fought back a wave of guilt when her mother buried her head in her hands and shook it back and forth.

  A glitter of what she thought was amusement filled Christopher’s eyes. His father on the other hand, appeared as though he’d taken a bite out of a sizeable lemon.

  Sophie stared down at the keys not feeling the sense of victory she imagined she should feel. Instead, she battled down the realization that she’d once again disappointed her family.

  “That will be all, Sophie,” Geoffrey snapped. The black look he favored her with indicated that Sophie was in a good deal of trouble when their company left.

  She scrambled to her feet, and dipped a hasty curtsy.

  A ghost of a smile played on Christopher’s lips. Was it because her performance had only fueled his every negative perception of her? Suddenly, Sophie wished she’d handled the evening altogether differently.

  Wished she’d not allowed her pride to interfere with her actions.

  “Uh-I…if you’ll excuse me.” She managed one more curtsy for Christopher and the marquess and hurried from the room.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  Miss S.W. was reminded why young ladies should not tilt back on the legs of their chairs after she upended herself at the Marchioness of K’s music recital.

  ~6~

  “Do you know what hour it is?”

  Seated in the Duke of Mallen’s leather winged-back chair, Christopher glanced across Mallen’s office to the ormolu clock. “Five o’clock.”

  Mallen stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. “Five o’clock in the morning. The morning,” he said as though speaking to a small child. “And, isn’t it a bit early for brandy?”

  Christopher found his friend to be taking this conversation rather well, considering the favor he’d just put to him. He sipped from his glass of brandy. “I need your help, Mallen,” he pressed.

  Following last evening’s dinner party at Redbrooke’s, he’d thought about his conversation with Sophie as they’d strolled around the Red Parlor. She’d spoken with a refreshing degree of candor that really shouldn’t surprise him considering her lively personality. Right before he’d fallen asleep, an idea had come to him—an idea that very well might help him thwart his father’s plans for him and Phi. Said plan, however, involved leniency on the part of his close friend, Mallen.

  Mallen opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. Instead, he went and poured himself a brandy. He took a long swallow. “You would like me to court Sophie Winters?” He reclaimed the chair behind his desk. “Sophie. Emmaline’s dearest friend. The rather plump young lady…”

  Christopher shifted in his seat. “Ohhh, would we call her plump?” For some reason, Mallen’s insult grated on his very last nerve. Of course he should be incensed. He’d known the young lady since she’d been in the nursery.

  Mallen scratched his brow. “I didn’t intend it as an insult. I would call the lady more voluptuous than anything else. She has—”

  “Will you help me?” Christopher bit out. He’d heard quite enough from Mallen on Sophie’s attributes. He liked Mallen’s detailed description of Phi even less than the earlier perceived insults. He told himself the odd churning in his gut was merely a brotherly sense of affection for the young woman.

  Mallen tapped his fingertips along the rim of his glass. “I’d like to make sure I understand you clearly.”

  Christopher’s hand slashed through the air. “A ride in Hyde Park, an ice at Gunter’s. Nothing more than that.” He imagined those gestures alone should deter Redbrooke’s interest in pairing Christopher and Sophie.

  Mallen raised a brow. “If you were this romantic in your attempt to woo my sister, it is no wonder I ended up with Drake as a b
rother-in-law.”

  “I’m not trying to woo Miss Winters,” Christopher pointed out. The Duke of Mallen represented a means to an end of any foolish attempt by Christopher’s father to see him married to the vixen.

  A ducal frown formed on Mallen’s lips. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that the young lady will be gravely wounded should your plan be discovered.”

  “Bah, she won’t discover anything, Mallen. Only you and I will know the truth.”

  “Dare I even ask what has fueled such a mad scheme on your part?”

  Christopher managed a half-grin. “Miss Winters herself said the only thing that would thwart her mother and brother’s efforts were if she secured the affection of a duke.”

  Mallen sighed and took another swallow of his brandy. “Any duke will do, eh?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right.” That wasn’t altogether true. Sophie had specifically mentioned the Duke of Mallen. Christopher’s gaze wandered past Mallen’s shoulder, to the full-length window. Outside, the sun and moon warred for dominance in the morning sky. Burnt hues of orange and red painted the horizon.

  Why didn’t he want to admit to Mallen that Sophie had in fact dangled his specific ducal title?

  The actuality of it was that Christopher didn’t particularly care for Sophie’s mention of Mallen. He didn’t know why. Nor did he care to analyze such irrational sentiments overly long. He blamed it on fatigue. “Will you help me?” Christopher pressed.

  Mallen dragged a hand across his eyes. “I do not want to risk endangering the young lady’s affections.”

  “I’m sure she’ll just welcome your attention,” Christopher hurried to assure him. “She merely wants to avoid a match with me.”

  Mallen’s lips twitched with what was surely amusement. “You’re a fool if you believe that. No young lady desires anything less than marriage.”

  Christopher drummed his fingertips along the edge of his chair. Yes, Mallen had him there. The goal of all young ladies was a respectable match. “Sophie’s different,” he said. And she was. Unlike any other young lady of his acquaintance. She had a penchant for getting herself into scrapes that resulted in her name appearing in the scandal sheets. She spoke her mind with remarkable freeness.